No Good Deed
by Drop Your Oboe
Summary: Glinda thinks back on the people she loved, and what became of them. Truly, it had come full circle. No good deed goes unpunished... -postmusical oneshot- r&r!


_Disclaimer: the words, at least, are mine. The characters belong to Stephen Schwartz and Winnie Holzman. Enjoy..._

* * *

Nobody truly expected Glinda the Good to have feelings.

Or rather, nobody expected Glinda to have feelings that differed from their own.

You've not thought of that. Well, it's true, isn't it? It's only the face and the name that people turn to in times of national terror, not the person behind them. Yes, everyone heard her say that the Witch was dead, and so they celebrated.

But Glinda was only there to tell them the facts: the melting occurred at the thirteenth hour, the direct result of a bucket of water thrown by a female child. Yes, the Witch was dead. And so they celebrated, not _seeing_ her, not truly.

Of course, they saw when she smiled at them. What nobody noticed was how carefully she kept the bubble high enough so that no one could see that it was a false smile, so that no one could hear the tones in her voice, no one could tell that the eyes that seemed overbright from happiness were really overbright with painstakingly unspilled moisture.

* * *

The week the Witch was killed was also the week that Glinda began locking her bedroom door at night. Rumors flew furiously, as they were apt to do. Glinda turned into a hideous creature at night. Of course she didn't, she turned into a fairy. She didn't turn into anything at all, but had taken a mysterious lover who scaled her wall at night. No, he was magical, and appeared in her room. She didn't have a lover at all, but communed with ghosts. In fact, it was the Witch's ghost, and Glinda, by means of arcane and dreadful spells, was forcing the shade to reveal the terrible secrets of the Grimmerie.

Of course, none of that was true. What Glinda's spies and staff had failed to realize was that after the door was locked, _no sound whatsoever_ came from inside their goddess's cloistered chambers.

* * *

Glinda, puzzling over the letters of the Grimmerie, had discovered, quite by accident and some strange twist of clarity, a sort of soundproofing spell. Her entire apartment now lay under the enchantment's protection, which meant that at night she could decipher, one by one, the words of the ancient text without her staff getting curious.

Although- and strange to think it, Glinda thought- that had not been its original purpose.

* * *

Glinda had taken to carrying the Grimmerie with her. It saved her the trouble of fetching it from some locked vault every day, and also the risk of its being stolen from the aforesaid vault. In that respect, it had been a good idea. (It had also started a trend of carrying large bags, which Glinda, in retrospect, was rather proud of.)

It was also _not_ a good idea, for the simple reason that the Grimmerie reminded everyone of its former owner, and they in turn reminded Glinda.

She had thought people were past comments such as, "Wouldn't that book have been terrible in the hands of the Wicked Witch! I'm so glad she's finally dead and gone!"

Apparently, they were not: Glinda attended a formal dinner one night and was accosted by a barrage of similar remarks. She quickly excused herself to her worried hostess as mildly indisposed, nothing to worry about, and went home, locking her door firmly behind her.

Almost surprising herself, Glinda had had a desk put in her room. She propped the leather-bound volume on it and went to wash the makeup off her face, then came back to change for the night, avoiding looking at the desk. She reached blindly into a drawer and pulled out the first nightgown her hand touched: it was black, the only one she had in that color, and in spite of herself Glinda smiled a little. Then she took a deep breath, reached out for the Grimmerie, and settled herself on her bed.

In the dim-lit space, the book cast shadows, dark, dark ones edged, it seemed to Glinda, in verdant hues. Glinda remembered the last time that- that _she_ had read from it, in an attic somewhere above the very room she was in now.

And again at Kiamo Ko, releasing the book into Glinda's possession as she went, as she must have known, to her fate.

_Look at you_, she'd said, _you can do all I couldn't do, Glinda… so now it's up to you, for both of us…_

And Glinda remembered the look on her friend's face when Elphaba had said-

When Elphaba-

_Elphie_-

Until now Glinda had avoided even thinking the name, and this brought everything back, Shiz and the party-and sharply, painfully, Fiyero-the Emerald City, their fight-

-and oh, terribly again, Kiamo Ko, the last time. Glinda remembered how the torchlight had fallen at just an angle to darken Elphaba's features, all but the eyes, and the eyes were smiling, they held pride, of all things. Glinda wondered how Elphaba could possibly be proud of who she'd become, _but that's what friends do,_ thought Glinda, _they forgive,_ and surprised herself with the thought. Elphaba, for all that she'd been the strong one, had seen that Glinda needed her glitter and her adoring public to stand on and had accepted that in her, where Glinda could not forgive herself.

And where Fiyero had never been able to.

_Fiyero_…

He too numbered on the list of those whose beloved faces she would never see again, a list she hadn't known she'd ever make. She realized now that Fiyero could have been a dear friend to her, if she'd only seen that he did not want her as she'd wanted him. She realized that he'd be alive if she had let him go, he and Nessarose and maybe even Elphaba.

Selfish. The word rang silently in her ears. Glinda the Good, selfish.

_I know,_ she railed at herself, _I know, and I'm sorry, so sorry, but will this never leave me?_ Distraught, puzzled, she buried her face in her hands. Tears ran down Glinda's cheeks. She fell backwards, groping for a pillow, and clutched it to herself. _Nessa, Fiyero… Elphie…_

Truly, it had come full circle. No good deed goes unpunished.

There is no vindication for a Wicked Witch, for a traitor prince, for a terrorist or a dictator. For a heartbroken, love-blind woman. For an optimistic young girl brave enough to take a stand. For a man willing to risk his live for the woman he loves.

And yet the one that brought that all upon them carries no blame.

That night, Glinda the Good cried herself to sleep.

* * *

_That's a bit darker than I intended... well. What did you think, hmm?_


End file.
